


Lapsang Souchong

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cigarettes, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Male!Anthea, Male!Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Nursing Kink, POV John, Smoking, Tea, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>How Sherlock managed to smoke a cigarette without John's complaint</i> </p>
<p>Mycroft's medical emergency leads to unexpected revelations for John. Genderswap. Johnlock nursing kink + smoking kink PWP, the other characters are background. Follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1231210">Milk</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1576436">Scheduling Delivery</a>. </p>
<p>Inspired by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Caravan">Russian Caravan tea</a>, a blend of Oolong, Keemun, and Lapsang souchong teas. Lapsang souchong has a smoky flavour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapsang Souchong

“Here we are,” chirped John, balancing two trays of tall paper cups.

“Coffee for the ones that need to be most awake.” John handed four cups, one-by-one, to a tall, dark-suited man who distributed them to his clones around the room.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” said John. “[Russian Caravan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Caravan), for the man who likes to drink from Mordor’s latrine in the morning.”

“Lapsang Souchong is an _acquired_ taste. Thank you,” said Anthea.

“So they tell me. An [Irish Breakfast](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_breakfast_tea) for Our Lady of Perpetual Lost Sleep.”

“Look who’s talking, but thanks,” said Lestrade.

“And, last, but certainly not least, a pair of top-shelf Ceylon black, for the World’s Only Consulting Detective and her humble blogger.”

_Too chipper. Tone it down, John. She’ll notice._

Sherlock was slumped over two chairs, fiddling with her mobile. John placed the cup beside her.

_Didn’t notice. Good. Security detail—check. Now, Anthea._

John sat beside Anthea.

_Dreamy. Even at this hour, he looks like he stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. But worried. Finely tailored suit, impeccable grooming and he still looks off, naked. Because he’s just sitting. No electronic device of any kind to be seen._

“If you’re needed in the office, I could text you when there’s news,” offered John.

“Thank you, but I’ll stay a little longer. She might come out of anaesthesia and want to dictate a memo. Or something. Also, need to keep an eye on them.” He nodded to the suited crew sipping their coffees.

“Watching the watchers?”

“She would.”

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”

_Next, Lestrade._

John moved across the row of chairs.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” Lestrade put the cup to her lips. “It’s just...”

“Appendicitis happens to normal people. Not the British government.”

Lestrade nodded. “She knows everything, sees everything, fixes everything. How can she be in there, getting a piece of her removed? It doesn’t make sense. She tried to hide it. She didn’t want to admit how much pain...She could’ve...So fucking _stubborn_.” Lestrade blinked quickly. “Oh, _John_.” John handed her a handkerchief.

_Remember the handkerchief. Good. Forgot the rosary. What good Catholic girl goes to hospital vigil without a rosary?! Stupid John! Need to find a church. Light a candle. On the way home._

“It’s okay. She’s going to be okay.” They hugged each other tightly.

_Security detail, Anthea, Lestrade, Sherlock—Sherlock!—and Mycroft. Everybody has tea—or coffee. Coffee was a good idea. Called Sarah and said I wouldn’t be in today. Told Mr. Hudson. Paid the rent. Turned off the stove. What else needs to be done? Taken care of? Christ, I don’t know. I don’t know. Did I turn off the fucking stove?! Don’t look at her._

For an instant, Sherlock and John locked eyes over Lestrade’s shoulder. John lowered her gaze. She said evenly, “The doctors here are world-class, and it’s a very simple procedure...”

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Bored! I’m going to smoke a cigarette.”

John stood up. “Sherlock, no!”

_Don’t start, you gorgeous fuckwit_.

“You’re right. I’m going to smoke a whole _pack_ of cigarettes.” Sherlock waltzed over to the dark-suited man stationed beside the door and deftly lifted a pack from his jacket pocket. “On the way to Baker Street. Thanks, mate. Add it to the ol’ girl’s tab, wouldya? Laterz!”

“Christ!” John ran a hand through her hair and threw a glance at Lestrade.

“Go.”

“I’ll be right back.”

John ran after Sherlock. She caught sight of her at the emergency exit. “Sherlock!” She called down the stairwell as she took the steps two at a time. A door opened and shut. John followed and found herself in a dark, empty wing. She walked slowly, looking from side to side.

“Sherlock?”

Suddenly, she was being yanked into a room and thrown against a wall. The door shut. _Click!_ John’s jumper was pulled up and her bra pulled down. A wet heat shot through her.

“Oh, God, Sherlock!”

Sherlock hummed. And sucked. Hard.

_Christ, that’s good. Need this so much. Need to nurse Sherlock. Need to...Wait, what? It’s her kink. Not my kink. I help her. I just help her. Hell, it’s not even the normal day for it. Maybe she needs it because of Mycroft. Christ, I need it. Wait, wait. I don’t need it. She needs it. Does she need it? But, it’s so fucking good. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I need. Christ, I’m some kind of pervert. A big, fat, ugly..._

“Ouch!”

Sherlock pinched a fold of skin at John’s side between her teeth.

“Stop! Thinking!” she roared.

“Sherlock....”

John didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Or the thought.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Finally, John whispered, “When did this become a two-way street?”

“When was it ever not?”

John felt her world tilt. Her knees buckled; Sherlock caught her around the waist. She led to John to the hospital bed and positioned her at the head of it. John’s jumper and bra disappeared. Sherlock pulled her arms out of the Belstaff, and John instinctively—because by now it _was_ instinct and perhaps, she was realizing, it always _had been_ —wrapped it around them.

Sherlock’s mouth latched onto John’s nipple. John fell back against the pillow, panting, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, holding Sherlock’s head against her breast. Then, she looked down and brushed Sherlock’s cheek. She watched it hollow and fill as Sherlock nursed. John groaned at the warm, indescribably _right_ tug of Sherlock’s lips on her skin. On her mind and heart and soul. On anything that mattered. Sherlock’s tempo slowed, and John consciously synchronized her breathing to the cadence of long draws. She relaxed, and the two bodies curled closer around each other. John closed her eyes and just _felt_.

By the time Sherlock switched breasts, John’s world had narrowed to the thin space between her and Sherlock. She caressed Sherlock’s face, tracing her eyes, eyebrows, eyelashes, nose and the edge of that greedy mouth with one fingertip. “So hungry, this one.” Sherlock pulled off and looked up. John hid nothing: not her love, not her wonder, not her need.

“More.”

Sherlock smiled. And obliged. When she pulled off again, the cool air chafed John’s skin, and she winced.

“More.”

Sherlock switched anew.

“Oh, _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock’s lips and tongue were cradling the nipple as John cradled Sherlock’s body against hers. Then, there was the faintest, lightest suction, and tears pooled in John’s eyes. “I love you,” she breathed.

The declaration fell softly and settled on the pair like snow. Sherlock released John’s nipple and pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts.

After a pause, Sherlock said, “Still going home.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you stayed this long. Keeping hospital vigil for your sister seems out of character.”

“I wasn’t keeping vigil for _Mycroft_.” John looked down at Sherlock with one raised eyebrow.

Sherlock huffed. “How can you _still_ be such an idiot? Alright, let’s be dim. I was watching over _you_.”

John’s eyes were round as saucers; Sherlock nipped playfully the edge of her gaping mouth. Then, John giggled. “I know I’ve expressed the sentiment in every possible variant available to the English language, but you are amazing, Sherlock.” She planted a hard, quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“True and true.”

“Guess I should get back,” said John. “I’ll text you...”

Sherlock interrupted. “It’d be more convincing if you smelt of smoke...” She held up a cigarette and wiggled her eyebrows.

“No!”

“John...”

“No, Sherlock!”

“Just one.” Sherlock sat up and threw the pack at her. “Return the rest.”

“No, Sherlock.”

“One drag?”

“Sherlock, first of all, this is a hospital. You will set off...” Sherlock fumbled in the pocket of the Belstaff and took out a round disk with protruding wires.

“Of course.” John rolled her eyes. “You can’t stop at one drag.”

“ _I_ can. I’m not sure about _you_.”

John huffed.

“One drag, and I’ll give it you. You’ll give it back,” said Sherlock; her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Alright. But you won’t win, Sherlock. Cancer isn’t sexy.”

“No,” agreed Sherlock. She held the cigarette between her lips and produced a pack of matches from the Belstaff.

John went on. “Mouth cancer, throat cancer, lung cancer. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema, chronic bronchitis, asthma. Increased risk of all kinds of other cancers, heart failure, stroke, diabetes...pretty much everything awful. Not sexy.”

“No.” Sherlock struck the match and held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Then, she took the cigarette between the fingers of one hand and extinguished the match with a wave of the other. She dropped the match on the floor.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” said John; she crossed her arms over her bare chest and cocked her head.

Sherlock put the cigarette to her lips and pursed them. She sucked. Then, she turned her head and blew the smoke out in a long trail. Like a dragon.

_That’s sexy._

Sherlock smirked. She held the cigarette in two curled fingers.

“Show-off,” said John.

Sherlock nodded.

“Know-it-all.”

“That too.”

“You have an oral fixation.”

Sherlock leaned closer and whispered, “So do you. Just not for your own mouth.”

John’s eyes widened.

_Jesus Christ, she’s right._

“Of course, I’m right. I’m always right.” Sherlock held out the cigarette.

“One more,” said John. Sherlock grinned triumphantly and put the cigarette to her lips. She winked.

_Don’t look too superior, my Beloved Smaug. This Hobbit may have lost a battle, but the war? The war, she will win._

“If you get to indulge your _fixation.._.,” John dropped her voice to a seductive rumble and leaned forward as Sherlock leaned back, smiling. “...then, I get to indulge _mine_.” Sherlock blew out the smoke above John’s head. She offered the cigarette to John.

John scoffed. “I don’t want your cancer stick, Sherlock. That’s not what I like to _suck_.”

Sherlock froze. Then, she placed the cigarette between her lips, and in a moment— _Christ, not on more-than-three-continents have I seen anyone shed their clothes so quickly_ —she was naked from the waist down. They switched places, and Sherlock leaned back against the wall at the head of the bed, splaying her legs. She panted.

John waited.

_Ask._

“Suck my clit, John.”

“And?”

“Finger me. While I smoke.”

With one fluid movement, John scooped her arms under Sherlock’s thigh and put her tongue to Sherlock’s cunt. As Sherlock drew deeply on the cigarette, John drew her tongue very slowly and deliberately up the centre of Sherlock until she curled it under the top ridge of her mons. She mouthed her clit.

“FUCK!” exclaimed Sherlock on the exhale; she clasped John’s head tightly in her free hand. John hummed and repeated the gesture, a leisurely drag of her tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK! _John!_ ” John covered Sherlock’s clit with her mouth again and sucked gently, only stopping to run her tongue along the sides. Sherlock smoked and keened, her chest heaving. John turned her head and, without abandoning her ministrations, eased two fingers in Sherlock.

“John, yes, yes, _yes_!” responded Sherlock with muffled cries as she balanced the cigarette between her lips and stroked the back of John’s head with two hands. She twisted restlessly. John rose and stilled Sherlock’s movement with one strong arm draped firmly across her waist. She thrust her fingers inside Sherlock roughly and bent to kiss her clit lightly. She felt the tremors run through Sherlock’s body like electric current.

“ _John_ ,” panted Sherlock. “Don’t stop. More.”

John pulled away. “No!” cried Sherlock frantically, chasing her.

John nodded to the stub in Sherlock’s hand.

“Choose.”

_The war, Sherlock._

The flicked cigarette hit the wall and dropped.

“I choose you. _Are you mad?_ Of course, I choose you. Always. Forever. You perfectly _idiotic_ specimen of a...” The words died in groan as John slipped her fingers slowly back into Sherlock and lapped at her folds like a mother cat washing her kitten.

“Insult a girl while she’s _in_ you...” she rumbled.

“John.” John looked up; Sherlock needlessly brushed a lock of hair from John’s face. “ _Fuck_ me.”

“Gladly.”

 

 

John rested her head on Sherlock’s thigh. She felt the salt on her tongue as she idly licked the skin nearest to her. One of Sherlock’s hands was caressing her temple. The other was weaving in and out of her hair.

John said, “Blend of Oolong, Keemun, and Lapsang souchong teas. ‘Russian Caravan.’ Named for the 18th century trails of camels travelling the six-thousand-mile journey from the Chinese border to Europe. Dark. Smoky. Romantic, hmm?.”

“Perhaps. If you’ve never been in one.”

John looked up with a raised eyebrow.

“A Russian caravan.”

John’s snicker turned to a giggle and then a full-bodied laugh. She vibrated against Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John’s head back by her hair and looked into her eyes.

“I _adore_ you, John.”

John nodded.

“I feel _adored_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Inspired by this (very NSFW!) [image](http://deepervalley.tumblr.com/post/83621686318).
> 
> Have tried Russian Caravan many ways, black, with sugar, with milk, with milk and sugar, with lemon, with Jameson, and still haven’t acquired the taste. Banished it to the top of the refrigerator because it was stinking up my ever-expanding tea nook. It smells interesting. Like a swamp murder. It tastes like dragon piss.
> 
> When you write one story about a particular kink, it’s an experiment. Add a sequel...well, whatever. But a third story and you’re taking out your flag and sticking it in the ground and saying, “Yeah, this is me.” That _this_ is one of mine amazes me.
> 
> Come from a long line of women who enjoy—yes, enjoy!—keeping vigil at hospitals and sickbeds. The notion that you go to hospital without a handkerchief or a rosary: sacrilege!


End file.
